


Read Him Like a Book

by Swordy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Illiteracy, Season/Series 01, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4622778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Dean, I need to ask you something and I want you to promise that you’ll tell me the truth. Can you read and write?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Sam is looking at him again and he realises that all his years of running and hiding have come to an end here, with Sam and a promise and a question.</i>
</p><p>Set in Season 1, canon AU. In the aftermath of his father’s disappearance and Jess’s death, Sam is stunned to discover his brother’s darkest secret: Dean is completely illiterate. As they re-establish their relationship during the hunt for their father and the yellow-eyed demon, Sam tries to persuade Dean of his worth and that it’s never too late to learn...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn_gen_bigbang 2014. Thank you to the wonderful thruterryseyes for also acting as beta. After some last-minute alterations, any remaining errors are mine. She's been an incredible artist to work with and has made this a wonderful Big Bang experience! Thank you also to reapertownusa for organising the whole thing and just for being a lovely person. :)

The digits on the clock cast a dull red glow across the scattering of items on top of the nightstand. Sam has seen two turn to three, turn to four – the numbers mocking his inability to sleep. In the bed across from him his brother has no such problem. Dean can easily function off minimal sleep but when he gets the opportunity to rest he will grab it with both hands and slumber like a baby.

He’d forgotten the noises his brother makes when he sleeps. Dean stirs every so often and Sam knows normally he’d find that reminder of the past comforting, but tonight (or rather this morning) it just serves to emphasise that his confidence is misplaced. He doesn’t know Dean that well at all and _fuck_ that hurts.

He gets how warped this is; his girlfriend died – was _murdered_ – recently in a manner beyond the comprehension of most people, and he’s here, _sleepless,_ because he doesn’t know his brother as well as he thought he did.

Dean stirs, makes the familiar noises and turns onto his side, although, like the trained soldier he is, his hand never strays far from the knife he keeps under his pillow. Sam envies him right now, but then Dean isn’t reliving every fucking memory of their lives together wondering how the hell he was so self-absorbed that he didn’t see what was under his nose all along.

Tonight, by chance, he discovered his brother’s darkest secret.

Dean is illiterate. Completely, totally, _utterly_ illiterate.

Just a quick glance around the darkened room reminds Sam how horrifying he finds that idea. Everywhere he looks there are signs: _Please report any breakages to Reception; Please vacate your room by 11am; Take care - Water can get extremely hot._ How the hell can an adult – _Dean_ – function in a world that relies so heavily on words when he can’t read them?

His mind burns with questions he wants to ask his brother, but given how their conversation went earlier this evening, he figures he’ll let his black eye fade before he provides Dean with a reason to give him another one. Despite the fact that Dean himself confirmed it (shortly before his fist connected with Sam’s face), Sam cannot help trying to find a memory, find _something_ that will prove that it isn’t true, but the reality is he has nothing to show for his many hours of introspection.

OoOoO

_Four weeks earlier_

“Sam? Sammy?”

Eventually Sam glances up at the increasingly insistent tone. Dean is a blur through the tears that seem to have formed an ever-present film across his eyes, but the big brother shape moves closer, eventually coming to crouch in front of him.

“Hey,” Dean says gently. “It’s eleven o’clock, dude. Tom says you need to get moving.”

“I can’t go,” he replies after a moment, his voice as affected by the tears as his vision. “I need... I need to stay here.”

He knows Tom is hovering somewhere in the background. He hates appearing so vulnerable in front of his friend, but the pain of Jess’s death is so raw it does not allow him the luxury of dignity.

“Okay,” Dean replies, his manner unshakable like the hand resting on Sam’s knee; a quick pat of support before he uses the purchase to push himself back to his feet. “I’ll go and see the dean for you. If she’s any questions I’ll let you know.”

“I can come with, if you like?” Tom says to Dean. They're both looking at him now.

Sam manages a grateful nod. Ordinarily he’d not be sure in what reality he’d allow his old life and his new life to collide so spectacularly, with his rough and ready older brother meeting the dean of this esteemed institution, but he knows it’s _this_ reality: the reality where his girlfriend burned to death on the ceiling of their apartment last week, cruelly reminding him that the life of a hunter cannot be hidden behind textbooks and social meets.

He knows Dean won’t be thrilled about going in his place either, but it’s yet another example of how Dean will always put his brother’s needs before his own and Sam feels both guilty and overwhelmed with affection at the knowledge.

An hour later and Dean is back. Tom hasn’t come with him, so talk turns to where they go from here. Jessica’s death has been determined a tragic accident and their own investigation has hit a wall, so when Dean suggests they follow the coordinates their father has left them, Sam can’t think of a reason not to.

His friends express their dismay at his leaving, especially when he can’t make any promises about when he’ll be back. It’s surprisingly easy to put Stanford in the rear view mirror though. What’s equally surprising is how quickly being back on the road with Dean feels okay. He wonders if this is because their father isn’t with them, because his fractious relationship with his father was almost always the source of any Winchester disharmony in the past. He feels secretly guilty at the thought though, since John is still missing and may be in trouble.

OoOoO

The wendigo in Colorado is rude awakening.

Jericho happened because they were looking for their father, but this is a straight forward hunt, saving strangers and, without wanting to sound like a heartless asshole, not actually benefitting either of them. This is the life he’d desperately worked so hard to escape and it pains him that he’s right back where he started.

They’ve been on the road for a few weeks when he receives a text message from Tom. He’s had messages from various friends at Stanford since taking off with Dean, but it’s the first time that he really feels that pull to return. He surprises himself by telling Dean as much, then is more surprised when Dean suggests he take a trip back there since they’re between hunts and the trail for their dad has gone cold.

“You’re coming too, right?” he asks Dean in the brief pause between Metallica and yet more Metallica.

Dean glances across at him, his expression seemingly aiming for neutral, but not quite achieving it.

“Me? What the hell d’you want me there for?”

“I dunno,” he replies, which is actually the truth because it’s definitely not Dean’s idea of fun. He thinks about it for a moment and realises that having Dean come too is a need rather than a want. He doesn’t want Dean to laugh at him though, so he figures an insult will do instead.

“Guess I’ve just got used to having your ugly mug around again.”

Dean snorts a laugh, but doesn’t say anything. Despite the insult, he’s seen the comment for what it is and fortunately isn’t going to be a dick about it.

“Fine, but I’m getting a motel. I’ve seen enough of your buddies at Stanford to know it ain’t gonna be enough like Animal House for my liking.”

“Fine.”

Sam texts Tom back and tells him they’re going to be in town for a few days after the weekend. He receives an enthusiastic response, indicating his friends are still hoping he’ll see the light and come back to college to continue his studies. He almost texts again - to warn them against getting their hopes up before he has to see them face to face, but he stops because isn’t that what he wants really? If anything, it’s _Dean_ that needs the reminder that this situation is only temporary.

They arrive back in Stanford late afternoon on the following Monday. It’s early December and there are hints of Christmas starting to appear everywhere. In accordance with Dean’s wishes, they find a motel and check in. Dean then heads out to the convenience store they passed while Sam sets about calling his friends and making plans for their visit.

Despite Dean’s reluctance, he convinces his brother to come with him when he meets his friends that evening. By mutual agreement, they’re not hitting any of their old haunts and Sam knows this is a deliberate attempt by his friends to keep him from becoming maudlin with memories of Jess. He’s good with that, even though he’s not said as much. The additional bonus is that the bar they choose is Dean’s kind of place and when conversation turns too academic, his brother wanders away to shoot pool.

Dean is on his best behaviour and although Sam hasn’t specifically asked him, he doesn’t hustle anyone at pool. He’s still _Dean_ enough to make some of his female friends act like there’s something in the water and Sam’s conscious of a subtle change in mood as the night goes on. To be fair, Dean’s not actually hitting on any of them, but it’s enough to piss off his male friends who have either girlfriends or crushes amongst the group.

There’s no open warfare or clashing of antlers and potential disaster is averted when talk turns to Jess and they begin to reminisce. It’s melancholy, yet cathartic, and everyone goes home content and a little bit drunk. Sam climbs into bed with a renewed sense of loss, but still glad that he came.

Despite this, Sam is secretly relieved when Dean announces that he’s going to do his own thing the following evening. The plan is to meet at Tom and Brady’s place and get takeout and beers and just shoot the shit, just like they used to do before the fire. Over pizzas they fill Sam in on what they’ve all been up to and how they’re getting on with their courses.

They of course ask about what he’s been up to, but it’s easy enough to evade their scrutiny with vague stories about a road trip washed down with liberal quantities of alcohol. In fact, it’s going well until Sarah turns the conversation towards Dean.

“Seriously, Sam,” she says, eyes bright, the product of too much tequila. “Your brother’s _hot_.”

Sam rolls his eyes because, _what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?_

“Has he got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Oh God, he’s not _gay_ is he?”

There’s laughter as Sam issues a good-natured denial.

“Well that’s definitely good news,” Sarah says happily before she turns to Ashley who has passed from tipsy to drunk several hours ago. “You know he speaks some Latin?”

“He _does?_ ”

Sam somehow manages to resist the urge to roll his eyes again. Typical Dean, always the charmer.

“Yeah, he told me last night.”

“Wow, he must be _really_ smart,” Ashley enthuses. “Is he smarter than you, Sam?”

“He can’t be that fucking smart,” Brady says scornfully before Sam can answer. His eyes however hold a wariness that says he does not want to offend his friend. “I mean, come on! He can’t even read or write.”

“Brady!” Lindsay says, punching him in the arm as her cheeks flush with embarrassment. Other conversations cease and all eyes are on Sam who frowns deeply, then laughs at the ridiculousness of the statement.

“What the hell are you talking about, man? Of _course_ Dean can read.”

“Yeah?” Brady says, suddenly growing in confidence. “Ask Tom if you don’t believe me.”

Collective attention now lands on Tom, who is clearly trying to murder Brady with the power of thought alone.

“Tom?” Sam says, knowing it sounds like an accusation.

When Tom braves a glance at him it’s clear his friend realises that they will be having this conversation with or without his blessing. Tom sighs, then heaves himself out of the chair and beckons Sam to follow him outside.

Irritated, Sam rounds on him the second they’re alone.

“Okay, what gives, man? I mean, we all know Brady’s full of shit, but what the hell is he talking about?”

Tom sighs again as he pushes both hands through his hair, clearly uncomfortable with what he has to say.

“I’m really sorry, Sam. I didn’t tell Brady, I swear. I mentioned it to Claire and she must have told Lindsay...”

“Mentioned _what?_ ” he snaps as he swears to himself that if the next sentence out of Tom’s mouth does not contain some form of explanation then he’s going to start punching things.

“You remember when you were supposed to go and see the dean just after Jess... Well, you remember I went with your brother instead?”

Sam nods, but he lets Tom continue.

“Well, she produced a stack of forms for Dean to fill in so that you could officially take a break from your studies and he... well, he wanted to take them away, so that you could fill them in, you know? But she kept _insisting_ they had to be done then and it was fine for him to do them on your behalf.”

Tom glances up at Sam, his expression sympathetic.

“I swear he tried every excuse in the book. I felt so fucking bad for him, man. When the dean left the room I asked him if he needed me to help.” Tom pauses, presumably to recollect the moment.

“He looked _seriously_ pissed, but then he just nodded and gave me the forms. I’m sorry, Sam but your brother can’t read or write. You really didn’t know?”

Sam lets out a long, shaky breath and it’s a while before he can find his voice in order to reply.

“He... it, it’s gotta...” He stops, shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts and then speaks, his voice more confident this time. “No. He’ll have a reason, but it’s not because he’s illiterate.”

Tom can’t help the doubtful look that passes across his features. He knows what he saw and if Dean Winchester was only acting as a man who couldn’t read and write then an Oscar nomination should be a fait accompli. When he’d offered his help, he’d never seen anyone look so furious and so grateful at the same time.

“Look, man,” Tom says reasonably. “Just talk to him. He’s your brother, right?”

Sam barks out a sharp laugh.

“Talk. Yeah, the Winchesters are _great_ at talking...”

The note of bitterness in Sam’s voice rises above the muted conversation from inside the house. Sam seems to come back to the present then and Tom finds himself fixed with a look that makes him flinch and fear for his safety, which is ridiculous because it’s _Sam_ and Sam’s the nicest guy he knows.

“I’m really sorry that the others found out, Sam, and Brady’s just being a dick because he thinks Lindsay’s hot for your brother.”

Sam pushes away from the railing suddenly and for a moment Tom thinks he’s about to get a beating, but Sam just passes him and jogs down the steps, a muttered _‘I gotta go’_ trailing in his wake. Tom watches him leave and only once Sam’s gone does he let out a relieved breath, unable to shake the notion that Sam Winchester is a guy that you really don’t want to piss off.

OoOoO

Dean isn’t there when Sam lets himself into the motel room. He takes the seat facing the door and helps himself to the half empty bottle of Jim Beam abandoned on the table while he tries to get a handle on how this will go down.

His first idea is a terrible one; tossing a book at Dean and demanding he read it seems so cruel that he rightly disregards it – glad that Dean did not return before he could irreparably damage the one relationship that, he is coming to realise, does and _will always_ trump all others.

When Dean lets himself in some forty minutes later his surprise quickly turns to concern at finding his brother there. It’s clear he’d hoped that leaving Sam with his friends for an evening would provide a welcome, albeit brief, distraction from the raw pain of losing his girlfriend, but if anything, Sam looks more distressed than ever.

“Sammy?” Dean says as he approaches, his eyes finding the empty bottle before he meets his brother’s desolate gaze.

“Hey, Dean. Good evening?”

Dean hesitates, then figures what the hell and goes with it. “Uh, yeah. Not bad. Thought you were staying over at Tom’s?”

He watches Sam shrug his shoulders as he scratches at a spot on the table.

“Yeah. I changed my mind.”

The bourbon has shaved the sharp edges off the words, but Dean can still detect things unsaid. He eases himself into the seat across from his brother and waits a beat in case Sam is about to say anything else. When nothing is forthcoming, he figures he can forgive himself a chick flick moment given the circumstances.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Sam looks up so he pushes on. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, dude. Losing Jess-”

“It’s not about Jess,” Sam says abruptly. “It’s about you.”

Wrong footed, he finds himself bracing for impact. He knows this is his fault; if he hadn’t commandeered Sam into helping him look for their dad then Jessica might still be alive, but to hear the words from his brother’s lips will inflict a blow that will permanently wound him, no matter how badly he deserves it.

“Dean, I need to ask you something and I want you to promise that you’ll tell me the truth.”

He frowns, wondering why Sam isn’t just getting to the point and telling him that he hates him.

“Uh, sure.”

“ _Dean._ ”

“Okay, I promise! Jesus, Sam we’re not kids...”

Sam looks straight at him then and Dean realises that although the bottle of bourbon is empty, his brother is closer to sober than drunk.

“Dean. Can you read and write?”

If he thought he was wrong footed before then Sam has now done the equivalent of a perfectly executed leg sweep and he is lying on the floor looking up and wondering how the hell that happened.

“Dude? What kinda crazy-assed question is that? Of course I can re–”

“ _Dean,_ you promised you’d tell the truth.”

Yeah, he did, didn’t he? _Fuck_. Sam is looking at him again and although it’s not quite the puppy dog eyes (which he swears have _no_ effect on him) he realises that all his years of running and hiding have come to an end here, with Sam and a promise and a question.

He covers his mouth with his hand, huffs out a laugh – wonders should he just stand up and run even though that will answer Sam’s question.

“Jeez, Sammy...” he says eventually and with those words the game is officially up, even though they both knew it before he’d even opened his mouth. Sam’s expression is unreadable (which is really fucking ironic) and it exacerbates his anger.

“You think I’m _proud_ that I can’t do something a grade schooler does?”

“Dean, you’re illiterate! How does that even happen, man?”

“’Cause I’m _stupid,_ okay?” he says rising to his feet. “What d’you want me to tell you, Sam?”

“I want you to talk to me, Dean! I wanna understand how you’ve gotten to twenty six years old without learning how to read and write.”

Sam stands up too and when Dean moves to walk away, he grabs his brother’s arm to stop him.

“I wanna understand how Dad could –”

He stops abruptly when a fist connects squarely with his eye and he falls back into his seat. Through blurred vision he studies his brother, as angry as he has ever seen him.

“Oh no,” Dean growls. “You don’t get to bring Dad into this, Sam. I know you think he fucked up your life, but you can’t blame him for everything, you know.”

Sam doesn’t say anything even though Dean knows he will want to and _fuck,_ what kind of asshole punches his baby brother when he’s grieving for his murdered girlfriend? When the silence has gone on long enough he waves his hand in a vague gesture before he heads to the door.

“I’ll go get you some ice for that eye. Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

It’s not an apology, but it’s as close as he’ll get right now. Sam watches him leave, sighs heavily knowing that went exactly as he expected if not how he wanted, and decides rest might be a good idea after all.

He’s under the covers staring up at the ceiling when Dean comes back. Accepting the ice wrapped in a cloth, he doesn’t say anything and Dean doesn’t either, but the air between them is heavy with the tension of things unsaid. Dean is asleep before long, leaving Sam with the glowing red digits of the motel alarm clock for company and a long, endless night of ifs, buts and maybes.

OoOoO

Despite his firm belief that sleep is impossible, Sam wakes to find himself alone in the motel room. He catches his reflection in the mirror across from his bed and winces at the discolouration around his eye, fingering the flesh gently for a moment while he wonders where his brother has gone.

He has no idea what kind of mood Dean will be in when he gets back from wherever he is, which he can’t exactly complain about because he has no idea what kind of mood _he’s_ in either. The black eye is irrelevant; if he’s going to be pissed about anything it’ll be the years of deception rather than a minor physical injury.

Alone in the room, he marvels all over again how Dean could have kept something like this secret for so long and once again feels the insidious rush of anger building inside him. He knows most of it is reserved for himself though and his inability to see something that would have been obvious, had he the time and inclination to look.

He’s wondering if he’ll even be able to look at Dean in the same way again. He quickly gets the opportunity to find out when the motel room door opens.

“Brought you coffee,” Dean says with a quick, awkward glance at his brother’s bruised face.

“Thanks,” Sam replies as he accepts the proffered peace offering, because he isn’t so dumb to not see it for what it is.

When he samples it, he realises the true extent of Dean’s guilty conscience, for his brother has clearly swallowed his manly pride and ordered Sam’s favourite even though the last time he’d said _‘you want that frou frou shit then you’re ordering it yourself, dude’._

Sam then realises with a jolt why else Dean might have refused to order anything other than straight up coffee. Aside from the menu at Starbucks which Sam knows Dean would have no problem memorising, there are too many options, usually written on blackboards above the baristas’ heads in independent coffee shops for him to fulfil Sam’s request when he’s said ‘surprise me’ to his brother.

The same goes for diners he’s guessing. Now he thinks about it, Dean is happiest in restaurant chains he knows, which makes perfect sense.

He also realises that Dean’s good looks and natural charm serve him beyond the benefits of extra helpings and attentive service, particularly when he’s somewhere new. Dean will always ask the waitress about the specials ( _variety’s the spice o’life, Sammy_ ) or what she recommends with an easy smile and then order whatever the suggestion is.

He’ll have made a pretense at looking at the menu, but Sam now realises that’s all it is – a goddamned _pretense_ and he knows there’ll be a million more examples of how Dean has successfully hidden his illiteracy from him when he really stops to think about it. He dumps the scalding hot coffee on top of the hollow feeling that seems to have lodged itself in his chest and watches his brother while Dean safely has his back to him.

“You wanna go get some breakfast?” Dean says without turning because, _of course,_ he knows when he’s being watched.

“Sure,” Sam replies. Food and hunting are the two favourite topics when observing the Winchester family tradition of ‘not talking about important stuff’. Despite the fact that it irritates the crap out of him - Sam being the only Winchester to have realised the value in talking - he will play along until, as usual, the elephant becomes so fucking huge it threatens to squeeze all the oxygen out of the room and somebody finally acknowledges it before they all die, because even Dean and his dad aren’t _that_ stupid.

They choose a diner a little out of studentsville that they went to before, in the immediate aftermath of Jess’s death, when Dean had insisted that he eat _something_ despite Sam’s protestations that food seemed to turn to lead the second it hit his stomach. He’d suggested that diner because of the quiet yet friendly atmosphere and he finds himself suggesting it again now in the vain hope that Dean may talk to him here, away from the prying eyes and ears of his fellow students.

Sam catches himself with this thought, realising that he isn’t a student anymore and probably never will be again. He wonders how, in the last twenty four hours, he stopped believing that his return to the hunt was only temporary and feels both depressed and relieved by the thought.

The waitress, Wendy, is in her mid fifties, but loses ten years when she smiles, which she does as they settle into the booth and return her friendly expression. If she’s aware of the tension that circles around them both then she doesn’t show it. She hands them menus then begins to list the specials as she will undoubtedly do many times over the course of her shift.

“I’ll give you boys a minute to decide,” she says, then moves away to start bussing a recently vacated table behind them.

In the booth, Sam quickly makes his choice then returns to watching his brother. Dean, to the untrained eye, looks relaxed and untroubled, but Sam knows better, _knows_ the flush to Dean’s ears is his brother’s way of screaming _this is awkward as fuck._

Dean’s drumming his fingers on the menu – the menu he hasn’t so much as glanced at because there’s no point still trying to play the game when the other person has packed up their pieces and gone home, is there?

“Do you...” Sam begins, “Do you uh, want me to... you know?” He flaps a hand at the menu and immediately knows he’s said the wrong thing by the darkening of Dean’s expression. “Never mind.”

Wendy returns and _quelle surprise,_ Dean orders one of the specials after Sam has made his selection. Dean doesn’t meet his gaze while he’s ordering and after Wendy leaves, they sit in impenetrable silence until Sam almost succumbs to the path of least resistance and mentions something, _anything_ about looking for their next hunt.

The words are on his lips when Dean says, “It’s not the end of the world, you know. I get by just fine.”

Sam’s head shoots up as he tries to school the surprise from his features that Dean has opened the lines of communication. The irritation in him softens immediately and he smiles.

“I know you do, man. It’s pretty damn impressive; I just can’t believe I didn’t know.”

And it’s true; he _is_ impressed, but mostly he’s saddened that Dean’s life, as hard as it is already, is harder than even he realised. Yet Dean never complains and still puts everyone else’s problems before his own.

“It must be tough, though,” he ventures after a pause, hoping Dean will give him the green light to ask the many questions that have burned within him since he found out.

He knows it drives people crazy – as an inquisitive five year old his father once asked him if he ever started a sentence with words other than ‘why’ or ‘how’. And he’s got a _ton_ of questions, but he knows better than to start asking them without Dean’s implicit consent. To his chagrin, Dean simply shrugs.

“Like I said, I get by.”

And that’s it. Permission to probe denied, for now at least.

They decide to leave Palo Alto immediately. Dean casually mentions a hunt in Toledo, Ohio and although neither of them actually say it, they’re both glad to leave California behind. Sam knows Dean had been reluctant to meet his Stanford buddies, even though he had made all the right encouraging noises when Sam had first received the text from his old roommate.

For his part, the reasons to leave are many and varied. Although his friends welcomed him back with open arms, he can’t help but feel jarred by how quickly their lives have moved apart. Although he loved his studies at the time, they now all seem... well, _insignificant_ when lives are at risk from things that are often not believed, even when they’re seen.

And yes, this situation with Dean, or rather his friends' knowledge of it, is a factor too. He hates that they can judge his big brother for the things he cannot do rather than appreciate him for the manifold ways he risks his life for complete strangers.

Sam is also smart (and perverse) enough to analyse himself and knows part of his anger is directed inwards because yes, he’s a little bit embarrassed too and _fuck_ he hates himself for that because who wouldn’t? Dean is a hero, _his_ hero, and to feel ashamed of him, even in the tiniest capacity feels like a complete betrayal.

OoOoO

As they travel the highways and byways of America Sam finds himself adding to his list of questions he has for Dean. He knows Dean has been hunting alone while he was at Stanford and he can’t get his head around how Dean managed that without even basic literacy skills.

He’s looked briefly online about illiteracy (and quickly erased the search history before stopping to appreciate the irony) and he’s not sure whether Dean would be classed as functionally illiterate or totally illiterate and it frustrates him that he cannot even ascertain even these basic facts.

What he does realise, however, is although Dean can be the most stubborn son of a bitch he knows, his brother doesn’t ever cut off his nose to spite his face. For instance, Dean will let him handle all motel bookings and never once passes judgement, even though he might not like Sam’s choices. None of this helps Sam, who desperately wants to know how Dean managed on his own.

Similarly, when it comes to researching hunts, Dean will delegate all the library stuff to him and carry out the more practical aspects himself, yet Sam knows Dean will have researched his solo hunts just as thoroughly even though he has no idea _how_.

When they’re hunting there are instances that muddy the water further and frustrate Sam even more, like how Dean navigates their dad’s journal. In Black Water Ridge they’d needed information on Wendigos, Dean had found the right page even though there wasn’t a picture to reference the information. No wonder Dean had managed to keep his illiteracy secret for so long.

_How did you know where to look?_ The question had been on his lips, in the hope that Dean’s illiteracy wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought, but even he’d agreed that it hadn’t been an appropriate time to be picking his brother’s brains about his literacy skills when innocent people were being eaten by an honest-to-god fucking _monster_.

Then there’s the incident in St Louis.

Sam shudders as he recalls the skinwalker, who was his brother, but _not_ at the same time. He can remember not-Dean’s hot breath ghosting his face as he leans in, snarling Dean’s grievances about how he sacrificed everything for Sam and the hunt for their mother’s killer; how he didn’t even have chance to learn to _read_ because he was so busy putting little Sammy’s needs before his own.

Sam knows it’s not Dean really, but the skinwalker is _accessing_ his brother’s memories, not creating them and so he feel like shit all over again, because there’s surely a grain of truth in there, right? Dean won’t talk about it afterwards - mainly because he’s too jazzed by the thought that he’s missing his own funeral.

Despite the lack of conversation on the subject, Sam starts to learn things that go some way to answering his questions about how Dean gets by. He knows for instance that Dean can surf the internet for porn, which he learns accidentally through the discovery of the word ‘sex’ in his previous searches on Google.

He figures Dean has memorised the word, and therefore which three keys to press and he contemplates telling Dean that if he could teach him to read, he’d be able to be a little more specific in his searches, because _Christ knows_ what he’s come across by typing in ‘sex’ and clicking on whatever appears.

It also accounts for why his antivirus software keeps popping up like it wants a pay raise every time he switches the computer on. Since they got back on the road together it’s putting in serious overtime dealing with all the Trojans and worms and spyware that amass when Dean is let loose behind the keyboard with no awareness of what he’s actually clicking on in his quest for wankfuel.

When Sam’s prophetic dreams take them back to Lawrence, Dean’s so freaked by the fact that one: _Sam’s got the fucking Shining_ and two: they’re in _Lawrence_ , it seems unreasonable to try and discuss why Dean is an illiterate adult. Sam doesn’t miss the redness of his brother’s eyes when he returns from his bathroom break at the gas station and, hell, if Dean’s voice got anymore husky it’d be able to pull its own sled.

Sam hates that being here hurts Dean in a way he just doesn’t feel and he wonders for the millionth time what they did as a family to get the shittiest hand in the deck. Missouri unwittingly or not widens the gulf between them when she takes Sam’s hands in her own and says, “Boy, you are simply _burning_ with things you need to say to your brother”, then looks at Dean askance and fixes him with a glare that says she’s contemplating whether a smack to the head will move things along.

“Have you thought that maybe he just wants to help?” she says sharply and both of them know that this is no non-sequitur.

Dean scowls, but doesn’t look at either of them and Sam can’t decide who Dean’s more pissed at: Missouri for reading Sam’s thoughts or Sam for having them in the first place.

Despite its awkwardness, it would seem like a good opening for them to talk, but Dean’s emotions are locked down so tightly he knows that any kind of heart to heart would be pointless. Whatever they need to do in Lawrence, they need to get it done and _go_ so Dean can recover the equilibrium that passes for normal, for him anyway.

Things don’t improve for a while after that. Sam thinks it’s seeing his mother’s spirit that’s brought it home to them that they’re leading a life she would never have wanted for them and they each feel that it their own way.

He knows his mom would mourn his precious loss of normality right along with him, he’s _certain_ of it. He also knows, even without knowing the woman, that she would have _never_ wanted her eldest son to have traded the basic skills of reading and writing for an extensive knowledge of weaponry and a diploma in the art of credit card fraud, all from the University of Ridiculously Hard Knocks.

Dean may be proud of how comfortable he is with the nomenclature of the supernatural, but Sam is pretty sure he should know how to write ‘black dog’ if he knows how to kill one.

The tension that fills the car eases in direct proportion to the number of miles they put between themselves and Lawrence, but there’s still an embarrassing moment passing through Des Moines when Dean drives them down a street they shouldn’t have been on because it’s closed for a festival and he couldn’t read the sign.

Sam, who had been dozing at this point, wakes to a man yelling at his brother. The guy’s red, sweaty face is leaning in through the Impala’s window as he rants and gesticulates and _‘can you not fucking read?’ The road is closed, moron!’_ and Sam watches his brother, fingers gripping the steering wheel as those spots of colour appear high on his cheeks as he growls an apology and mutters something about not seeing the sign. Dean then reverses out of there before things get ugly and punches get thrown.

Anyone else would think now would be the perfect time to segue into a discussion about adult illiteracy and _‘See? That’s why being able to read would be useful’_ , but Sam has a strong sense of self-preservation. He recognises the mix of seething anger and humiliation in its guise of hunched shoulders and eyes fixed firmly on horizon and knows, wisely, to keep his mouth shut.

And then there’s the almighty fuck up that’s Burkitsville.

Sam knows it’s nothing short of miraculous that they haven’t come to blows more often given that they’ve lived most of their lives in each other’s pockets, but like heavy, humid storm clouds, they’ve gotta break sometimes and Burkitsville is ground zero for their first real blow-out since they started hunting together again.

Later, when he’ll analyze this like he always does, Sam will not be able to pinpoint why then and why there; maybe it’s just he feels, as the younger sibling, that he’s capitulated one too many times to his brother’s whims and his _I’m the eldest, what I say goes_ bullshit.

‘My way or the highway’ is an axiom that both Winchester boys are more than familiar with – their dad certainly said some variation of it more times than ‘I love you’ or ‘good job’ – and Sam figures Dean’s making up for lost time in John’s absence by having a turn at it himself, like it’s the birthright of the oldest family member present.

But ‘my way or the highway’ doesn’t account for _hey, maybe I want to do something else_ or _let’s talk about it and decide together_ or just plain old _you’re wrong_ and so ‘my way or the highway’ finally results in _if you want to do it, then you’re on your fucking own._ So the next thing that happens is Dean’s on his way to Burkitsville solo and Sam’s hitching his way back to California to look for their dad so he can personally tell him that his motto is bullshit.

Sam’s been told before that he’s good looking, but being a good looking _boy_ and a good looking _girl_ carry two very different values in the world of hitchhiking and so he does a lot of walking before he manages to get himself a ride.

Introspection is a corollary to passing many hours walking alone. Sam spends an inordinate amount of time working through scenarios of what will happen when he finally finds his father, and despite the million and one ways he imagines how it will happen, and the myriad issues between them, they all result in him and John getting into it over Dean.

Sam’s still stunned how John could have let Dean grow into a young man who can neither read nor write and cynically wonders whether their father was okay with this because it didn’t interfere with his grand plan. After all, from an early age Sam was pegged ‘the smart one’ and, let’s face it, no war was ever won by an army consisting of all strategists and no soldiers.

So yeah, Sam’s wondering if John just let it go because when Dean was shying away from his ABCs, he _was_ developing an aptitude for killing things and John was more in the market for a ‘doer’ rather than another ‘thinker’.

He loves his father in a way that comes with a lot of caveats and frustrated explanation, but he can’t deny that his favourite reunion scenarios end with him kicking John’s ass for failing Dean in a way that personally affronts him, even though he knows that Dean will be even more pissed with him than he already is.

And yeah, a small part of him knows Dean is not blameless in this. He did, after all, attend school, but apparently chose to spend most of it finding the best places to have secret assignations with his female classmates.

However love and hero worship are stronger and so the blame, in Sam’s eyes, sits squarely with their dad, because _seriously?_ Dean _idolises_ John and if John had said ‘Dean, you’ll never make a first-rate hunter if you don’t learn to read and write’ then Dean would have learned to read and write like his life depended on it.

When he meets Meg he’s immediately defensive when she tries to convince him that Dean’s holding him back from doing what he wants and finding out who he really is. He knows he feels this way because isn’t that _exactly_ what he did to Dean, albeit not deliberately?

He tries to tell Meg that she’s wrong – that everything he managed to do in his (temporary) escape from the family business he owes to Dean and all the things Dean sacrificed for him growing up. He’s angry at Dean for being a stubborn pain in the ass, but he’s not about to let some (admittedly cute) chick rag on the one good constant in his otherwise chaotic life.

He’s glad when he and Dean clear the air a little. He feels renewed and reassured by his big brother’s voice on the line when Dean apologises without apologising and gives Sam his blessing to go to California to look for their father.

Absence indeed makes the heart grow fonder and it is that reconnection with his heart and home that he’s seeking when he calls, but gets no answer. Several attempts later and he’s officially panicking. Dean _always_ answers his phone – how else would his baby brother get hold of him if he was in trouble?

He leaves a furious Meg and hightails it back to Burkitsville where his fears are confirmed, but fortunately not too late to be reversed.

Once they’re done with the pagan god and have Emily safely on a bus to Boston they’re left with the fallout of what happened. Obviously they deal with it by holing up in a bar where the music is loud enough to render conversation impossible until they can drink enough to achieve the same result.

Dean’s face is spectacularly bruised and he’s obviously in pain, but he chooses alcohol over the painkillers the hospital sent him away with after Sam insisted he be checked out. Sam knows this is his brother’s way of saying he’ll take a fractured cheekbone over the alternative, which is, you know, _being dead,_ any day of the week. Pain, he tells Sam, reminds him he’s still here and he’s somehow lived to fight another day and because Sam’s okay too, everything’s pretty much right in Dean’s world for now.

Sam, on the other hand, is matching Dean drink for drink because it’s beer or guilt and he’s opting for the one that _doesn’t_ taste like shit in his mouth. Dean has told him how he ended up on the wrong side of the Burkitsville townsfolk and regardless of his attempt to downplay it, Sam knows it’s because he wasn’t there and Dean was forced to outsource his research needs.

Dean insists he’d have run afoul of them regardless – pissing Scotty off before he’d even made it over the threshold of the man’s diner had probably seen to that, but Sam can’t help but wonder whose benefit he’s saying that for. There’s a look in his eye as he says it and Sam knows that look only too well – it says _leave this alone, Sammy._

In a move that probably surprises both of them, Sam _does_ leave it alone. He settles instead for relief that Dean’s okay, although he vows to himself that they _will_ be having a conversation about the real reason Dean ran into trouble in the near future.

It’s nearer than he thinks when he wakes in the dead of night, propelled from a nightmare in which he didn’t make it to Burkitsville in time and both Emily and Dean are nothing more than a collection of body parts after the scarecrow god is done with them.

Dean is awake instantly, his gruff voice splintering the darkness of the motel room to reassure and sooth and for a moment Sam can imagine he’s eight years old again. Dean’s next words shatter that illusion as he switches on the nightstand light.

“Another premonition?”

Once Sam has his racing heart under control he shakes his head, unable to trust his voice at that moment. God, it was _so fucking vivid_ and despite the fact that this dream was about something that has passed and therefore cannot be true, he finds it unnerves him even more than his premonitions because this is not some random stranger, it’s his _brother_ and watching him die, knowing it was almost reality has shaken him to his core.

The ‘what ifs’ begin almost instantly: what if he hadn’t decided to steal a car to get back to Burkitsville? What if he’d been caught? What if-?

“Sam?”

He finally looks at his brother and the relief at seeing him alive and well is unexpectedly suffused with anger. How many months has it been since he found out that Dean is illiterate? How long since he realised there is a way he could give something back to his big brother for all the things Dean did for him growing up. Yet have they opened a single book?

Long story short: Dean nearly died and all because _he couldn’t fucking read_.

“Dean we need to talk.”

His brother looks at him as if he’s not sure what his expression should be doing right now.

“About?” Dean asks hesitantly.

“About you,” he replies, and what the hell, he’s started so he may as well finish. “I’ve tried to be patient, man, I have. I thought if I didn’t put any pressure on you, you’d talk to me eventually but we’re getting nowhere and, _Christ,_ now it nearly got you killed and I get part of that was my fault, but I wanna help and I don’t get why you have to be such a stubborn son of a bitch and-”

“Okay,” Dean says, loudly enough to break into Sam’s diatribe. “I get it.”

Sam closes his mouth with an audible click. He contemplates asking Dean to clarify if he knows what ‘it’ he’s referring to, but he doesn’t because, well, maybe it’s ‘cause they’re brothers or maybe it’s because they live in each other’s pockets or something, but he _knows_ that Dean gets him. He waits, an expectant ‘so?’ in the rise of his eyebrows.

“So, _fine_ ,” Dean says with a growl of exasperation. “You can try and teach me to read, okay, Miss Honey?”

Dean punctuates this sentence by flopping back onto his pillow and flicking off the light. Sam is still too stunned to move – or even call his brother out on the Matilda reference - when his brother’s voice floats out of the darkness.

“But I’m not singing the fucking ABC song, okay?”

Sam doesn’t respond because he’s grinning too hard. He eventually falls asleep, and, thankfully, the nightmares don’t return.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam wakes to the sound of the shower and a feeling that he eventually identifies as hope. It’s only small – hell, when does anything go right enough for the Winchesters to confidently believe that their luck has changed – but it’s _there_ and, hey, the expression is a ‘glimmer of hope’ so maybe it doesn’t have to be that big in order to count.

They’ve talked (kind of) and Dean’s agreed to be taught, which is _so much_ of a victory right now that Sam can postpone worrying about _how_ exactly he’s gonna do that, to just enjoy the fact that they’ve even made it to this point. Obviously he wishes Dean didn’t almost die to achieve it, but he’s not a stupid man so he’ll take his victories where he can find them.

Since they’re between hunts, he knows he needs to capitalise on this downtime. Dean’s fractured cheekbone is causing him sufficient pain to warrant him taking his coffees with one sugar and two Vicodin, but in Winchester terms it’s a _scratch_ and therefore no reason to stall any learning, just as they wouldn’t turn down a hunt should it present itself.

When Dean steps out of the bathroom he glances at Sam in his underwear, hunched over the laptop. Dean doesn’t ask what he’s looking at because he knows it’ll have less to do with hunting and more to do with their late-night tête-à-tête, given the fact that Sam hasn’t even bothered to dress first, because _hey,_ what could be more urgent than an illiterate twenty six year old big brother?

Sam has the common decency to look a little guilty, yet at the same time, unrepentant and Dean internally groans as he wonders what the fuck he’s let himself in for. Sam knows he’s been made, so he figures he may as well acknowledge the fact.

“I’ve been looking at some websites,” and then, before Dean can make any comments about porn, adds: “And I think I’m gonna stop off at the library this morning to see what resources they’ve got there.”

“Uh huh,” Dean replies in as non-committal a manner as he can manage as he works his way into a fresh pair of jeans.

Sam studies him, hesitates, then thinks _what the hell_ and says: “but from what I can gather so far, we need to sit down and work out what you _can_ do so we know where to start.”

Dean frowns. “I can’t read and write. What’s so hard to understand about that?”

Sam knows he’s losing him. “But there’s more to it than that,” he argues, “because it’s almost impossible for you to know nothing.”

Dean looks as if he’s about to argue this point when Sam hits on a memory. “Okay, look. You go on the laptop sometimes, right?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“So how’d you find stuff?”

“You mean porn?” Dean clarifies.

Sam rolls his eyes, but nods. A part of him had hoped Dean uses the computer for more than just masturbation purposes, but it appears not.

“Yeah, okay porn. So how’d you find it?” Obviously he knows the answer already, but since trying to get information out of Dean can be like trying to extract a splinter with a bendy straw he figures he’ll start with something easy.

He watches his brother debate this with himself before he walks over to Sam and the laptop and says: “I press this key, then this one, then this one and press the button.”

Just as Sam expects, he’s pointed to the ‘S’, ‘E’ and ‘X’ keys.

“Okay, good. So what are those?”

Dean looks at him and Sam can sense the rising tension.

“Letters. They’re letters, Sam.”

“But which letters?”

The shutters snap down instantly. “I dunno, okay?”

Dean’s whole demeanour screams of someone who is about to bolt, but not without punching a few people out first, so Sam proceeds carefully.

“It’s okay, man. So you don’t know the letter names, but you’ve learnt their shapes, like you do with protection sigils or Enochian symbols?”

He watches as Dean gives a tight nod and a little of the dangerous tension seems to bleed from him.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Dean says, before hesitantly pointing to the ‘S’ key and adding, “I know that one’s in your name, too.”

Sam finds himself grinning, because although he thought Dean might have at least known the names of the letters in the alphabet, it obviously isn’t completely hopeless.

“You’re right, man. I’m impressed.”

Dean rolls his eyes as he walks back to his duffel to find a shirt. “Yeah well, can you be impressed with some pants on, dude?”

Sam glances briefly at his forgotten nakedness and laughs.

“Fair point,” he says.

OoOoO

Buzzed by the fact that they’ve _finally_ made a start, Sam wants to carry on when they head out for breakfast. Dean’s expression however indicates that he’s reading his brother’s thoughts and warning him not to try anything. Sam reluctantly reins it in knowing anything in public is likely to earn him a smack in the mouth.

It’s hard though; he desperately wants to point out words on the diner menu like ‘pie’ in the hope that Dean will be motivated by being able to read the words for things that matter to him. Surely then he’d be fully on board with Sam’s plan.

Sam doesn’t make the mistake of offering to read the menu again, but is heartened when, after they have listened to the waitress reel off the specials, Dean asks him quietly if they do a half stack with bacon, eggs and sausage. It’s an insignificant question, but it’s still seriously fucking momentous because Dean would _never_ have done that before for fear of giving up his greatest secret.

Sam nods and tells Dean yes, they do have it, so he can order _exactly_ what he wants now rather than settling for whatever the waitress suggests.

After they’ve ordered Sam decides to test the water carefully. There’s always a risk that he’ll say the wrong thing and Dean will place an embargo on the subject - the breaking of which could result in anything from the silent treatment to a broken nose - but with the right approach he might actually get some questions answered.

“Dean?”

“Uh huh?”

“I know you don’t wanna... learn here,” he says, gesticulating at the menus that they’ve both replaced in the holder on their table, “but there’s other stuff I can’t even begin to get my head around, if you’ll talk to me...”

Deans frowns and looks mildly annoyed, like the conversation has the potential to ruin his appetite.

“Like what?”

Relieved, Sam pushes on. “Like school. How come you never got found out?”

Dean shrugs. “Combination of things. We moved around a lot, I skipped school a lot, found girls I could convince to do assignments for me... Just got lucky, I guess.”

Sam forces himself not to shake his head, unable to comprehend how Dean can see his situation as ‘lucky’ as his brother continues to enumerate.

“A fake cast on my wrist covered me for six to eight weeks at some schools - a real cast other times did the same job. Plus, I had an awesomely smart little brother who helped me out from time to time.”

Sam is hit by a wave of memories: of Dean trading favours like letting him stay up late or pick the movie they rented for a completed assignment here and there – not enough to arouse suspicions in a little brother who relished the challenge of harder schoolwork – but clearly enough, with the rest of his strategies, for Dean to get by without arousing the suspicions of his teachers.

Sam knows that he, along with Dean’s bevy of teenage beauties, were obviously all operating under the misapprehension that Dean was just too cool for school. His older, wiser and much less impressionable self, however, is desperately sad for his brother, even though Dean would kick his ass for any kind of sympathy, no matter how well-meaning.

“What about dad?” he asks when he has extricated himself from his memories.

Dean’s expression darkens but he responds with another shrug. “He was busy. I kept my nose clean, stayed out of trouble, well, as much as possible.”

“He knew?”

“What do I look like, John Edward? Like I said, he was busy.”

Sam nods, prepared to let this go for now although this conversation is _so not fucking over,_ least of all if they ever see or hear from their father again.

“There was one time,” Dean says, always the master of deflection, “with a teacher, I mean. Mrs Archer, you remember her?”

Sam thinks, allowing himself to be drawn from contemplating how satisfying it would feel to kick his father’s ass over failing Dean so badly.

“No... wait, was she the one in Idaho?”

“Uh huh.”

“Ah, yeah, I kinda remember her. You asked dad to check if she was a witch.”

“Hey! I thought she had it in for me,” Dean protests. “She was good cop, bad cop and every fuckin’ variation in between. At first I thought she was like all the others – didn’t want a new student, too hard to get them up to speed in their classes, blah, blah, blah, but then I realised she was onto me. I have no fucking clue what gave me away, but as soon as I realised, I knew we had to get out of there.”

“Wait,” Sam says as he mentally replays that time in his life, the minutiae having gotten hazy with time. “That was when Dad got that anonymous call about a hunt in New Mexico.”

Dean nods and winces. “Yeah... that was me.”

Despite the passage of years, Sam’s expression transforms into the one his brother refers to as his ‘bitch face’.

“I was about to be presented with a science award. God, I was _so_ pissed at Dad that we just took off.”

He feels bad almost instantly when he sees the look on his brother’s face.

“If it’s any consolation, I’ve always hated myself for doing that to you, Sammy.”

Sam nods, smiles, would forgive his brother _anything_ for all the sacrifices Dean’s made over the years.

“Past history,” he says and means it.

Dean shrugs, never needing anyone’s help to weigh down his shoulders with misplaced guilt.

“Yeah, well, I figure I owe it to you to at least try to learn now.”

Sam wants to protest, wants to tell Dean _no_ , he should want to do it for _himself_ , but he knows how his brother operates so instead he says, “You don’t owe me anything, Dean, but I’m glad you’ll let me help.”

The conversation hits a natural hiatus, and as if to emphasise that he shouldn’t push for too much from Dean all in one go, the waitress returns at that moment and sets their steaming breakfasts down in front of them.

He can’t help the grin that escapes onto his face at the sight of Dean savouring his choice and he stifles it quickly with his cup of coffee. His brother is the _one_ person who shouldn’t have to ‘settle’, given how much he does for other people, without thanks or payment and Sam vows to do everything within his power to give Dean the freedom to have more choices, even if it’s something as insignificant as what he wants to eat.

After they’ve eaten, Dean decides he’s going to give the car a full clean and tune up – his usual course of action when they’re between hunts. Sam knows there’s therapy in those seemingly mundane chores for his brother and leaves him to it once Dean has dropped him off at the library, his brother’s cry of “nerd!” floating above the strains of Zeppelin from the Impala’s open window as Dean pulls away.

His dimples and easy manner secure the assistance of the young, casually-dressed librarian who points him in the direction of the adult literacy section. There’s no reason to lie, especially with Dean elsewhere, so he explains how he wants to help his older brother learn to read, but doesn’t know where to start.

Carla, the assistant librarian it turns out, queries if Dean is dyslexic and he’s floored for a moment as he contemplates why he hasn’t considered it sooner. He thinks back over their brief discussions on the subject and nothing Dean has said has indicated he didn’t learn to read because he _couldn’t_ , but who knows?

He admits he’s not sure so she gives him a few books on dyslexia, one of which includes a self test, before handing him some more general resources on teaching literacy skills to adults. When he’d first arrived he’d spun her a story about being new in town, so she then leads him over to the community bulletin board where there’s a flyer for adult education courses, including one for basic literacy skills.

Sam makes all the right interested noises before imparting the understatement of the year that ‘it might not be his brother’s thing right now’. Carla nods sympathetically as he towers over her, a stack of books in his arms.

He hands her ID in the name of Paul Rodgers, which secures him the necessary library card to check the books out. She’s so helpful that a small part of him hopes that they don’t find a hunt and have to skip town in a hurry so that he can return the books when he’s done with them in the fashion of a normal, paid up member of society.

Back at the motel he sprawls across his bed and begins his research. It’s strange to not be looking up lore on a long-forgotten legend or even a case precedence for whatever aspect of law he was studying that semester.

He starts with the information on dyslexia, figuring anything else could potentially be putting the cart before the horse. He’d never considered that Dean may have a learning disability that had impeded his learning so much that he’d eventually given up trying, but as he reads and digests the information, he starts to think this might not be Dean’s issue, after all. He answers the self test questions to the best of his knowledge, but knows he’ll have to get Dean to do it properly.

Several months ago he’d have felt confident saying Dean had no issue reading maps or telling left from right, but for all he knows his brother could have ‘L’ and ‘R’ tattooed on the inside of his eyelids to prevent anyone from finding out.

By the time Dean returns, his grin as bright as the Impala’s bodywork, Sam is convinced, relieved, but also saddened by the certainty that Dean doesn’t have a learning disability – he just wasn’t given the time and encouragement to learn.

In his head Sam is sticking with the reasoning that it’s their dad’s fault although he’s happy to apportion some of the blame to himself, after all, Dean’s lack of opportunities for most things lie with the fact that he was charged with caring for and protecting his little brother and he was so busy doing _that_ to the best of his age and ability, he forgot to do the same for himself.

He knows Dean would hotly argue this point by virtue of the fact that he’s still alive, but that’s not what Sam is getting at. Dean shouldn’t _exist_ for his protection or their dad’s quest to find the thing that killed their mom – he should _live_ because, well, what else is life for?

“You find us a hunt?” Dean asks and for a moment Sam thinks, _duh_ , because he’s surrounded by books that blatantly aren’t about monsters, until he realises that without a cover image to help Dean identify the subject of the book, his brother will have _no idea_ what they’re about.

“Uh, no,” he says, embarrassed with himself for the mental slip. “I’m researching ways to help you.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Great, ‘cause _that’s_ gonna save lives.”

The almost-lawyer in Sam bites on a response that says he could find a hundred examples to the contrary, because logic and Dean don’t always see eye to eye.

“Car okay?” he asks, as good a non-sequitur as he can think of at that moment.

“Uh huh,” Dean replies, grabbing himself a beer and handing one to Sam before he flops onto his bed. “Although I had to apologise to her _a lot_ – she was seriously overdue an oil change.”

Sam huffs a laugh as he takes a long drink. “Yeah? Sure you don’t wanna send her some flowers? Chocolates maybe?”

He narrowly misses the pillow Dean launches at his head. “Yeah, laugh it up, asshole.”

They lie in silence on their respective beds for a few moments. Sam is just debating whether saying anything will kill his brother’s obvious good mood when Dean says, “So, Professor, what have you found out?”

He meets Dean’s gaze in surprise; his brother is projecting casual indifference, but there’s that steely determination in his eyes that directly contradicts his apparent apathy. He feels that spark of hope again as he sifts through his research to find what he has effectively deemed the first rung on the ladder.

“Okay, well, when I went to the library the person who helped me find all this information queried if you might have dyslexia and I realised I’d never thought that there might be a reason you can’t read and write.”

“There is,” Dean replies flatly. “I never learned.”

Sam makes a face. “Humour me, okay?”

When Dean looks like he’s about to protest, he adds: “Dean, if we’re gonna do it, I wanna make sure we’re doing it right.”

He doesn’t say any more but Dean seems to sense how important this is to him.

“Fine. _Fine_. What do I have to do?”

Sam holds up the paper. “It’s a self test. I can read the questions to you, but you’ve got to answer them honestly.”

Dean’s about to make a smart remark, but wisely stops and instead says, “okay”, because they both know his track record of honesty around this subject is not exactly anything to write home about.

“Okay, number one: do you have any difficulty telling left from right?”

“Do I have any difficulty telling left from right?” Dean snorts.

Sam makes a face. “The idea is to _answer_ them, Dean, not repeat them back to me.”

“Sorry, I was a little thrown because you neglected to mention they were _stupid_ questions.”

“Dean...”

“No. No I don’t have any difficulty _whatsoever_ telling left from right. Next.”

They proceed through the list, although Sam realises a lot of the questions are redundant – for instance, Dean can’t answer the one about whether his handwriting is illegible because he _doesn’t write anything_. Sure, he can draw a mean protection sigil and when asked to sign his name he will produce a squiggle worthy of a man of medicine, but letters? _Pass_.

Other questions, such as does he have any difficulty reciting the months of the year result in Dean scornfully proving that he doesn’t and with none of the markers for dyslexia, Sam finally disregards the test and the stack of books on the subject, relieved that that’s at least one avenue it seems they don’t have to go down. It appears that Dean is right; he can’t read and write because he never learned in the first place.

Seeing that Dean’s still receptive, Sam then decides to do a little more informal testing. He writes some words in his notebook and then hands it across to Dean who takes it and studies the words, his brow furrowing as he drains the last of his beer.

He glances at Sam after almost a solid minute of silence, a slight flicker of embarrassment passing across his face before he nods that he’s done. Sam moves so they’ve both got eyes on the notebook as Dean points to the first word in the list.

“Okay... that one says ‘Sam’. That one...” - Sam notes he’s skipped a couple – “says ‘Winchester’ I think.”

“It does. How did you know?”

Dean looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I recognise that letter,” he says pointing to the ‘w’, “and I know the shape of the word. It’s long.”

Sam thinks for a moment, then writes ‘windchime’ and shows it to Dean.

“So if I’d written that instead, would you still have thought it said Winchester?”

“Uh... yeah. Same letter at the front and the right length. Obviously I can see it doesn’t look the same as the other word, but without that to compare... then yeah.”

Sam’s getting a feel for how Dean recognises the few words he knows – he obviously has a few letter shapes memorised and the rest is heavily reliant on context; he was assuming Sam would write words he was likely to know, so Winchester seemed a logical guess.

“Okay, so back to the list. Any others you know?”

Dean studies it again. “That one kinda looks familiar. I feel like I know it.”

Sam looks and gets it straight away. He grabs his pen, thinks for a second and then writes the word again in a more flowing cursive script. He looks up at his brother whose face has suddenly lit up.

“Ha, that’s easy! Best make of car in the world, Sammy.”

Sam nods at where he has written ‘Chevrolet’ in a style matching, to the best of his knowledge, the way it is written on the Impala’s front grille.

“Any others?”

“That one,” Dean says, pointing confidently this time, “says ‘salt’ and that one – is that my name?”

Figures, Sam thinks, that his dad would insist on Dean being able to recognise a few words and it angers him that his brother is more confident recognising a hunter’s best weapon than _his own name_.

“Right on both counts,” he replies. He taps the pen thoughtfully against his bottom lip. “Okay, well, from what I’ve read we need to get you familiarised with the names of the letters and get you so you can write them. We can also get you recognising some high frequency words...”

He realises he’s talking more to himself by this point, thinking out loud, and he realises he hasn’t done that since Stanford when his days were spent studying and problem solving and putting what he’d learned into practice. He feels the buzz of a challenge, doubly so, since he’s getting to help Dean at the same time.

Dean is giving him a look that’s mostly saying ‘ _nerd_ ,’ but he’s keeping quiet, which means he’s letting Sam take the reins and isn’t going to give him too much shit about it. Sam grins in response, feeling strangely triumphant as he unfolds himself in order to stand up.

“Another beer?” he asks.

Dean nods and laughs. “Is that my reward for good work? You should call the schools people, Sammy. I think you’ve found the perfect motivator.”

Sam laughs too as he hands his brother a fresh bottle.

“Do you also work for pie?”

Dean nods emphatically as he counts them off on his fingers.

“Beer, pie and sex. In any order. Or all together.” He thinks for a moment. “ _Especially_ all together.”

OoOoO

Two weeks on and Sam’s buzzed by how much headway they’re making. Dean can now identify approximately ninety percent of the alphabet, has about twenty five words in his sight reading vocabulary and has only threatened to kill his little brother _eleven times_ , which is probably the most impressive part of the whole thing.

His progress (and the eleven death threats) are down to the relentless nature of Sam’s teaching. The motel room they’ve rented while they follow a (sadly dud) lead on their father’s location is covered in post-it notes with different letters on each so Dean can never get away from _the motherfucking alphabet_ as he’s come to refer to it as. He practises writing the letters daily in exchange for Sam bookmarking the Busty Asian Beauties website (and a few others) and a little quality alone time with the laptop.

Dean complains repeatedly, but doesn’t shy away from his brother’s lessons and Sam knows, when he sees the grin of pure achievement on Dean’s face when he writes his name for the first time, it’s worth all the bitching in the world.

Personally Sam thinks most of the words Dean can now recognise (porn, cheeseburger, beer etc) leave a lot to be desired, but letting his brother select the sight vocabulary he wanted to learn have at least kept him motivated.

There have been blips, naturally, because if it were easy Dean would have picked it up years ago, the same way he’s learned rituals and lore. Sam has no answer for some of Dean’s frustrations, like ‘ _why the fuck do h and n have to look so goddamned similar, huh?_ ’ and he narrowly avoids a pen in the eye when Dean flings it away angrily, sick of trying and failing to make his letters look like the ones Sam has printed carefully in the notebook for him to copy.

But there are more steps forwards than back and Sam feels the sense of accomplishment right along with his brother. Dean allows him to start programming people’s names into his cell phone now that he can recognise them, which is another piece of the puzzle he realises he held all along. He can remember borrowing Dean’s cell phone as a teenager and staring, bemused, at the endless list of numbers with no contact details to identify who they belonged to.

When he’d asked him about it, Dean had initially explained that he didn’t have the time and inclination to programme the phone and when Sam had then offered, Dean had declined, citing that he’d rather keep the numbers memorised in case something happened to his phone.

As a fully paid-up member of the Winchester clan, Sam had known the likelihood of losing or breaking your cell was significantly higher when being tossed across the room by a vengeful spirit could be considered part of a normal day, so he’d accepted Dean’s rationale and left him to it.

So far Dean’s got ‘Sam’ and ‘Dad’ programmed, even though he’s half-heartedly argued that it’ll make his brain lazy. Sam doesn’t bother with the counter argument that Dean’s brain is going to be kept _plenty_ busy learning to read and write because his brother isn’t an idiot and will have already figured that out for himself.

Frustratingly, Dean being Dean still makes out that it’s no big deal if he _doesn’t_ conquer his illiteracy and that Sam is just being Sam and making too big a deal of it, _as usual_.

After one particular lesson goes south and Dean declares for the millionth time that he doesn’t give a shit if he learns to read before stomping off to a bar, Sam is all geared up to tell his brother to go fuck himself, _the ungrateful asshole_ , when he stumbles across a book tucked in amongst Dean’s things when he’s angrily looking for laundry to take his frustrations out on.

It’s a plain lined notebook, but he’s not seen it before so naturally he’s curious. And yeah, although he doubts Dean is using it to keep a diary, he knows it’s still an invasion of his brother’s privacy if he looks.

He looks.

Only about half of it has been used so far. Knowing Dean and his short attention span he’s expecting to find some of the pages filled with nothing more than doodles – swirls and concentric circles and crudely drawn penises, but there’s not a single loop or phallus in sight. He sits down on the bed, and leafs through the pages slowly, treasuring each new discovery.

_My name ~~iz~~ is Dean Winchester_

_I am ~~lurning~~ ~~lerning~~ learning to ~~rite~~ write_

_Learning to ~~reed~~ read is hard. I will keep triying_

It’s not exactly Hemingway, but it touches Sam in a way that defies explanation. It says that despite Dean’s ‘couldn’t give a shit’ attitude, he _does_ care about it and he _wants_ to improve, even if it’s easier to keep up the pretense that he doesn’t. Sam realises now that he’s just seeing Dean’s tried and tested defence mechanism when he’s scared that he might fail at something that’s important to him.

He carries on reading. The next few pages contain passages that Dean appears to have copied directly from the Impala’s owner’s manual, presumably in an attempt to improve his handwriting. They’re just words, but it’s exciting to see something that’s clearly growing and developing and he smiles as he reads them. He turns the page, expecting to see more of the same.

_Sam is an ~~orsum~~ ~~awsom~~ awesome ~~teecher~~ teacher_

He stares at the words for several long moments, awash in an emotion that Dean would almost certainly pour scorn upon. There may not be many words, but this _is_ Dean’s diary, and it solidifies Sam’s guilt about reading it, even though he's really glad that he has.

With a new-found sense of patience for his exasperating older sibling, he replaces the book and abandons his irritation along with the laundry.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s another moment where Sam feels they’re at a critical crossroads on Dean’s journey. They’re in a diner in Lafayette following a successful salt and burn. The diner is busy – always a marker of good food according to Dean - and there are large menu boards over a central bar area.

Even though they’ve already ordered their food, Dean is studying the boards and, unconsciously mouthing the words as he sounds them out to himself. Sam’s noticed him doing this more and more and it’s genuinely endearing. He’d probably say something if the innocent observation wouldn’t end with him getting a busted lip.

Unfortunately Dean’s caught the attention of a group of young boys seated near them and they’re nudging each other and laughing at his efforts, because it’s obvious what he’s doing. In turn, Sam’s anxiety has caught Dean’s attention who looks, frowns, and then sees the direction of Sam’s gaze.

Sam’s watching his brother again now, and he sees exactly the moment the penny drops and Dean realises why the kids are staring and laughing at him. Dean’s expression darkens and he rises from his seat.

“Dean...” he says, and it’s part warning, part plea for calm. Dean evidently chooses to ignore both appeals and Sam thinks ‘ _shit_ ’, because Dean is going over there and this isn’t going to end well.

He also thinks ‘ _double shit_ ’, because he’d _finally_ got Dean on board with conquering his illiteracy and being laughed at by a bunch of stupid fucking kids is surely about to put paid to all that hard work.

The boys at the table are now watching Dean’s approach with a mixture of horror and laughable bravado. A couple of them appear to be weighing up whether to make a break for it, but Dean is faster and before they can move he’s sliding into the booth beside them, pinning them in their seats.

“Fuck,” Sam mutters to himself as he drops his head into his hands, because – let’s face it - it’s only a matter of time before the cops are called. He looks up again and frowns because Dean is over there talking to them - not yelling or threatening – but _talking_.

Whatever he’s saying to the boys, they’re listening and, more importantly, they don’t look in fear for their lives. He sees Dean roll up his sleeve and realises that his brother is showing the boys one of his more impressive scars – an angry-looking werewolf slash on his forearm from a hunt when Dean was about sixteen. If Dean’s audience was interested before, they’re now _captivated_.

Sam’s so intrigued that he’s considering going over there, when Dean suddenly high fives each of the boys and then extricates himself from the booth. Dean’s grinning when he sits back down in his seat, which just stokes the fire of Sam’s curiosity.

“Okay,” he says when Dean makes no attempt to explain what’s just happened. “You’re like, a child whisperer now?”

Dean shrugs, then takes a long drink of beer like it’s no big deal. Sam resorts to his bitchface, which ultimately works like a charm. Dean shakes his head.

“What? You thought I was going to go over there and beat up a bunch of kids?”

“No!”

“Well I was,” Dean replies, without missing a beat, “but then I figured I was probably _way_ more obnoxious at their age so I didn’t.”

“So what did you say?” Sam glances over and the boys are still looking at his brother every so often with expressions that border on awestruck.

Dean shrugs again. “I gave them the whole ‘stay in school’ speech. Told them I’d flunked out and that life and job options are a whole lot tougher when you can’t read and write.”

Sam’s stunned. As far as he’s aware this is the first time that Dean’s ever told anyone about his illiteracy, let alone a bunch of strangers.

“And showing them the scar?”

Dean grins around his beer bottle. “Street cred, Sammy, street cred.”

“ _Street cred?_ What - are we in an episode of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air now?”

“Aww, don’t hate on the cool kids, _Carlton_.”

OoOoO

So, all in all, it’s going pretty well. With hindsight, Sam realises that’s the point he should have known that everything would be getting itself comfortably seated in its hand basket, ready for the trip in Hell, because _nothing_ in their _miserable fucking lives_ ever goes their way for long.

Dean is rightly proud of himself that he can find all his favourite things on a typical diner menu and can write his full name without having to check if all the letters look right, when they get a call about a rawhead.

Dean is buzzed to say the least because, _it’s a rawhead, Sammy and you gotta taser ‘em and tasers are fucking awesome_. Sam never bothers to ask Dean if he’s changed his opinion about tasers after he’s been on the wrong end of one hundred thousand volts, mainly because his brain can’t process anything other than the fact that Dean is dying.

When he’s finally allowed to see Dean in the hospital he’s amazed that Dean’s even still alive. Obviously, he’s relieved too, but it’s a flame that flickers weakly and dies because this is a pyrrhic victory – Dean may not be dead _now_ , but he’s got weeks, a month at most, which is a pretty crappy thank you for stopping a murderous rawhead from killing anyone else.

Dean looks _terrible_ and Sam can’t remember a time where his older brother has looked so sick. Then he stops thinking because there is no ‘last time this happened’. He can recall being young and terrified when Dean was bleeding or unconscious after a hunt, but that was more youth and naiveté on his part than life-threatening injury on Dean's. Soon, he came to realise that blood or a few hours out cold didn’t mean death, _hell_ , most of the time it didn’t even mean _hospital_ for the Winchesters.

But this, _this_ , there’s no rule book for because no one has even actually looked him straight in the eye before and said ‘ _I’m really sorry but there’s nothing we can do._ ’

Dean is his usual bravado-filled self and the urge to punch him in the face rivals his desperate need to care for his older brother in a way that Dean has always done for him. Dean is talking now about bequeathing him the Impala and haunting him if he damages her in any way and _fuck_ why won’t Dean shut up, because _he’s not fucking dying, okay?_

Dean’s looking at him like he’s no business getting bent out of shape about this because they do hunt monsters for a living and isn’t this an occupational hazard they accepted a long time ago?

And all at once Sam feels the burn of rage and injustice resurface; _this_ is why he wanted to go to college, _this_ is why he wanted a normal life for _all_ of his family. Dean shouldn’t be okay with this, just as he should never have been okay with being illiterate and Sam knows he isn’t going to accept that all his work persuading Dean that he deserves more out of life was for nothing.

Dean’s not dying and that’s final.

Alone in the motel room he throws himself into research. Everything else ceases to be of interest, even the potential hunts they were about to take on once they’d dealt with the rawhead. He knows Dean would be pissed at him neglecting his so-called duty, but he can’t find it within himself to care. He needs to save his brother and has very little time to do it so everything else will have to go on hold, Dean’s wishes be damned. If people die... well, people die.

He can imagine his father’s outrage at such a cavalier statement, but it pales in comparison to his own, since his father’s priority should be towards his _son_ and not a bunch of random strangers – strangers whom often aren’t completely innocent when it comes to the messes they find themselves in.

He starts making calls, other hunters who might have seen something on their travels that could help them. The ones that know the Winchesters personally are sympathetic, but he hangs up on a couple who talk about Dean being a great hunter _in the past tense_ or say what a loss he’ll be to their small, but tight-knit professional community, because alone and without help, defeatism isn’t what he needs right now.

Directly following one of these calls, he bites the bullet and calls his father. He’s not surprised to be greeted by John Winchester’s voicemail, but it’s another frustration to compound all the others. He leaves a message, but it’s rambling and emotional and his voice cracks half way through.

He hangs up, wondering if he’s said enough to get his dad to show up at last, and then returns to his other lines of enquiry.

When he calls Bobby Singer he’s expecting the usual ‘sorry son, I can’t think of anything, but if I do I’ll let you know’ speech, which results in him wanting to scream, _did you not hear me? Dean’s got weeks left at most, so fucking think fast, okay?_ What he gets instead, is a concern so genuine it brings a lump to his throat that he has to clear with a stiff cough before he can speak again.

They haven’t seen Bobby in _forever_ , or at least _he_ hasn’t, and in his mind Bobby’s just another hunter contact with the addition of some vague childhood memories where he was like a distant uncle they visited sometimes.

He remembers a summer spent playing in the sprawling scrap yard that Bobby calls home when John left them to go on a hunt, and a couple of bad tempered weeks in the fall of the year he turned twelve when their dad had broken his arm and they needed a place to hole up for a while, but that’s pretty much it. Bobby’s concern and desire to help says different and Sam makes a note to ask Dean about it sometime.

“Leave it with me, son,” Bobby says, his voice gruff but reassuring. “I’ve got a coupla ideas so I’m gonna look into them and call you back tonight.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” he replies, almost embarrassed by the relief and gratitude in his voice.

Bobby is good to his word and calls back that evening after he’s returned from visiting his brother.

“How’s he doing?” Bobby asks once Sam’s explained where he’s been.

He shakes his head even though Bobby can’t see it. “Infuriating, but unfortunately still dying.”

His memory flashes to his brother lying in the bed surrounded by machinery that he knows is only monitoring Dean’s decline rather than preventing it.

“You know what he’s most pissed at? Not that he’s dying; it’s that he’s dying in such a boring way.”

“Not James Dean enough for him, huh?”

“Exactly.”

And it’s true. Dean _is_ pissed because he’s literally fading away, all pale skin and wasting muscles and dark circles under his eyes rather than going down in a hail of bullets or being ripped apart by some supernatural entity. _I always thought there’d be shit loads of blood, Sammy. Not lying here looking like fucking Skeletor_ , he’d lamented earlier when Sam had been at the point where he wanted to stick his fingers in his ears and tune out Dean’s relentless talk of _death_.

And Sam gets it, even though he doesn’t like it. Dean deserves what he views as a hero’s death, but clearly like his ol’ buddy Life, Death has it in for the Winchesters too and so Dean’s not going to get his own way, even at the end.

“Well,” Bobby says, drawing Sam from his maudlin thoughts. “I might have something. Now, I don’t want you to get your hopes up, boy, because I haven’t seen it with own eyes and that’s how I like to vet anything I’m recommending, but there’s a faith healer down in Nebraska that, well, seems to be the real deal.”

“A faith healer?” Sam says doubtfully and _fuck_ how else to sound like an ungrateful asshole but Bobby doesn’t call him out on it.

“I know, I know and if I know anything about your brother I wouldn’t use them words in front of him, but he straight up seems to be able to do what he claims.”

“How come he’s not made the news?” Sam asks, not quite ready to let hope in just yet.

“He asks people he’s healed not to talk about it and it seems like they’re so grateful to him, they don’t.”

Bobby gives him some more details about where he can find this faith healer, tells him to give Dean his best and then hangs up. Sam does a little research on the mysterious Roy LeGrange and then turns in for the night. Sleep eludes him though because he still needs an alternative plan to save Dean, just in case Bobby’s lead doesn’t pan out.

When he arrives at the hospital the following morning, he’s greeted by an administrator who asks him if he’d mind stepping into his office for a moment. Sam’s heart lurches wildly, panicked that he’s too late _and why the fuck didn’t they ring him?_ Then he realises the man is talking and it’s okay because Dean’s not dead – not yet anyway.

“Mr. Berkowitz, I know this is an _incredibly_ difficult subject at this time, but we’d asked your brother if he’d considered organ donation.”

Sam frowns. “I thought his organs are failing.”

“On the contrary,” the man says brightly as if Sam’s _not_ talking about hacking up his beloved big brother _before_ he’s even died. “Obviously, his heart wouldn’t be used, but his other organs are in excellent condition. It would be possible to harvest his liver, kidneys, lungs, even his corneas—”

“Yeah?” Sam says, aware of the tidal wave of rage he’s barely keeping a lid on. “And what did my brother say?”

The administrator shifts uncomfortably. “I’d rather not repeat what he said, but I left him some informative pamphlets. If you could encourage him to read them—”

“Listen,” Sam growls, his face inches from the other man’s alarmed expression. “Aside from the fact that my brother is dying, he’s _illiterate_ , so you’re wasting your time with ‘informative pamphlets’. And you know what? He’s spent his _life_ helping other people – hell, he’s _here_ because he was saving some kids from a maniac – so I’ll be damned if I’m gonna go in there and try and talk him into something he’s already made his opinion very clear on. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

He’s answered with some nervous yet emphatic nodding.

“I apologise, Mr. Berkowitz and I can assure you I was unaware that your brother is illiterate. I’ll ensure that it’s added to his file so that his doctors are aware that he’s given all future information verbally.”

“You do that,” Sam snaps in response before he turns and stalks out of the man’s office.

If possible Dean looks even worse. He looks _exhausted_ , which is both ridiculous and alarming given that the most exercise he’s done since he was admitted is to change the channels on the TV. Yet again Sam is hit by the devastating sensation that _this is real_ , he’s losing his big brother before his very eyes. The terrified little brother in him almost blurts out that he’s possibly found a solution, but he doesn’t want to get Dean’s hopes up unfairly when he hasn’t finished researching this guy in Nebraska.

Dean nods a greeting and Sam finds himself looking away quickly, the sallow skin and sunken eyes a frightening precursor of what’s to come. His averted gaze lands on the pile of pamphlets and he reaches for one slowly, resisting the urge to rip it into a million pieces.

“Nice, huh?” Dean says, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips.

“Why didn’t you tell them you couldn’t read?”

Dean makes a face. “You’re kidding, right? If I’d told him that he’d probably have insisted on sitting here reading each one to me.”

Sam concedes that Dean has a point.

“Yeah, well, I don’t think he’ll be troubling you again.”

“You didn’t hit him did you?”

“Should I have?”

Dean seems to weigh this up for a moment before he shakes his head, although the action is so slight Sam almost misses it.

“Nah. The jerk’s just doing his job. Besides, you can see the appeal of my organs if the outside’s anything to go by.”

Sam decides not to tell his brother that he actually looks like shit. Instead he rolls his eyes.

“You’re kidding, right? Anyone who wants your liver needs their head examining.”

“Hey, my liver’s fine!”

“Sure, for a sixty year old.”

“Hey, you didn’t bring me any beer did you?”

Sam scowls because only Dean would seriously expect him to sneak alcohol into the hospital. Dean sees it and makes a face of his own.

“Wow, you’d actually refuse a dying man’s request?”

“Yes, because you’re not dying, Dean.”

He’s almost glad that Dean’s too tired to argue back. When he leaves several hours later he returns to the motel to continue researching this Roy LeGrange character, his sense of urgency renewed every time he bears witness to his brother’s decline.

He’s in the process of planning the fastest route to get them to Nebraska when there’s a knock at the door. Seeing Dean on the other side is a shock only second to if his father was the one standing on the threshold.

Dean’s comment about not wanting to die where the nurses weren’t hot is stupid, but in all honesty Sam’s a little surprised Dean hasn’t checked himself out sooner because the Winchesters and their many aliases and the words ‘Against Medical Advice’ must litter hospital documentation up and down the country.

Sam knows it’s a measure of how serious it is this time that it’s taken Dean three days.

“I’d have been here sooner,” Dean complains, “if you hadn’t snitched on me that I couldn’t read because they insisted on reading through every fuckin’ form in case I didn’t understand what I was doing.”

“Sorry, man.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you are.”

“I _am_ , Dean.”

“Yeah well, next time keep your big mouth shut or teach me faster so I can read the damn forms myself.”

It seems to take Dean a moment to realise what he’s said because, as things stand, there’s not going to _be_ a next time. Sam however allows himself a second of hope because maybe Dean’s Freudian slip indicates that he’s not as okay with dying as he claims to be.

He doesn’t call him out on it though, instead delicately raising the subject of Nebraska and Roy LeGrange, who in the interests of persuasion has become a ‘specialist’ rather than a faith healer.

His relief is almost palpable when Dean agrees to go.

OoOoO

When they leave Nebraska, Sam’s wildest dreams (or at least his wildest dreams of the last fortnight) have come true. Dean is with him, healthy and whole and no longer dying (or not any time soon, at any rate), but the tension between them is almost unbearable. He’s not going to wish anything was different though; he did what he thought was best at the time and it’s not like they can change things anyway. He’s also not going to feel guilty that Dean is alive, but he hates what this is doing to his brother.

Dean, who could write (Ha!) the manual on self-esteem issues, has happily accepted the burden of another man’s death onto his already encumbered shoulders, even though he couldn’t have foreseen the price Marshall Hall would have to pay to let him live.

_We should have known, Sammy_ , Dean’s said a million times already.

Sam’s tried to reason with him, his logic flawless. After all, Marshall Hall would probably still have died when Roy LeGrange healed someone else and sure, some hunter would probably have gotten wind of the faith healer’s activities at _some_ point, but _them_ being the ones to stumble across LeGrange’s wife’s little secret meant the deaths stopped sooner.

Dean is still riddled with self-loathing though, and so Sam’s arguments fall on deaf ears - and then on ears that threaten to punch him if he talks about it anymore.

It doesn’t help when they can’t immediately scare up another hunt, and Sam starts to doubt that things will ever go back to the normal when Dean does something completely unexpected and takes the first step.

Sam is reading quietly when Dean returns from... well, he doesn’t know where exactly as their interactions have been reduced to a series of two and three word utterances such as ‘going out’ and ‘want anything?’.

Sam briefly glances up when the door opens so he doesn’t see what his brother is doing as he moves around the room. He finds out quickly when Dean’s notebook drops squarely into his lap. He looks up, frowning.

“Dean?”

His brother pulls out a chair at the table and sits down.

“I figured it’s time to stop slacking off and get back to this shit.”

Aside from it being the longest sentence Dean has said in about a week, it’s also possibly the most unexpected. Sam glances down at the book that has fallen open to reveal Dean’s improving handwriting – a row of tight, neat letters marching across the page from one margin to the other.

“Of course, man. You got it. You wanna do some now?”

Dean makes the face that says he still feels a little embarrassed about being an adult learner, but he nods his agreement anyway. Sam shuts his own book and goes to find all the resources he’s gathered since they started this journey together.

It takes him a moment to remember where they are, their importance diminished by the need to save his brother’s life. He finds them eventually at the bottom of his duffel and takes them back to the table, where they spend the next two hours working solidly.

Later on that evening, when they’ve eaten and are sitting with beers watching the game does Sam decide to satisfy his curiosity.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you decide you wanted to carry on studying?”

Dean’s eyes continue to track the action on the screen for a moment before he takes a swig of beer and glances over. He looks like he’s considering a lie, or at least an evasion of the real reason, but the sigh he lets out says he knows that Sam will always get to the truth in the end, making the intervening dance pointless.

“I keep thinking about Marshall Hall... and Layla,” he says eventually. “And I can’t change either of their situations no matter how much I hate it. But I _can_ change mine, so I figured the least I could do is to be grateful that I’m still alive and to try and, I dunno, better myself? Does that even make sense?”

Sam nods and smiles.

“Perfect sense, Dean.”

OoOoO

Life has returned to some kind of normality - looking for their father and killing evil things along the way - when Sam discovers that there’s even more that he doesn’t know about Dean. Ignoring the fact that they just took on a killer truck - _a killer truck for fuck’s sake!_ \- Sam can’t help but think that he’s still not getting the whole story about Cassie Robinson and the big love affair that wasn’t.

Dean insists that revealing the nature of the family business was what drove them apart, and Sam doesn’t doubt that, but what he can’t get his head around is why Dean even told her in the first place.

He’d been joking when he’d said Dean had loved her, but then Dean didn’t deny it. Sam knows it’s possible to love someone and not have them privy to your life story, so why had Dean felt the need to share their family history so badly?

Although he never shares his theory with Dean, he thinks his brother’s illiteracy and chronic lack of self-worth also played a significant part in it, because he’s _met_ Cassie now and she’s really fucking smart and confident in her own skin, and he honestly thinks Dean will have told her about the family business because he was scared that he was falling for someone he wasn’t worthy of.

Dean _had_ to push her away before it became too serious and she discovered his secret – something worse in his brother’s eyes than the fact that he hunted monsters for a living. Sam’s smart enough to keep his theory to himself, though and he contains his teasing to the fact that Dean has actually had a relationship for longer than the time it takes to eat a cheeseburger.

All joking aside, it _is_ sad that Dean would rather risk their father’s wrath by breaking the ‘never tell’ cardinal rule of hunting than give Cassie a reason to think less of him. Sam doubts that their dad knows what Dean did though. After all, Dean is nothing short of excellent at covering his tracks if he doesn’t want someone to know something.

Twenty two years in blissful ignorance of his brother’s illiteracy is testament to that.

OoOoO

Their hard work is almost for naught again, when a missing persons case they look into in Minnesota turns into a re-run of _Deliverance_ and they’re both lucky to make it out alive. Sam feels desperately sorry for the female deputy they crossed paths with as the Bender cesspit is now hers to cleanup, but Dean needs medical attention, having gotten up close and personal with the family of cannibalistic hillbillies.

“Fucking _people_ , Sammy,” Dean says for the millionth time as Sam drives them to the nearest hospital. “Not a demon, or a poltergeist or a vengeful spirit, just-”

“People, yeah, you said.”

Once Dean is being examined Sam closes his eyes and tries to think of nothing. He keeps telling himself that this isn’t like the last time he was asked to wait outside his brother’s hospital room. Dean hasn’t been on the business end of a taser at least.

A head appears around the doorframe, cutting into the thoughts he wasn’t having.

“Sam? You can come in.”

He’s on his feet with a speed that surprises even him. There have been too many close shaves recently – who’s he kidding; their lives are _one big, long, fucking close shave_ \- and even though Dean has walked into the ER this time, bitching that they’re here at all, he wants to see for himself that his brother’s okay.

They’re both a little worse for wear and they could have patched up most of the damage themselves, but Sam draws the line at trying to deal with Dean’s wrist. He’d been expecting a battle when he suggested the hospital, but even Dean has to admit Sam has a point, because it doesn’t take a diploma in human anatomy to know that bones are supposed to be _inside_ your skin and not sticking out of it in a stomach-churning break for freedom.

Their assessment that the bone is broken has turned out to be surprisingly accurate and when Sam enters his brother’s room, it’s to find a medic up to her elbows in plaster of Paris-soaked bandages as she creates the cast that will hold Dean’s broken wrist in place. Dr. Mathis, as she introduces herself, is pretty, so naturally Dean is using all his best lines.

Unfortunately for Dean, he’s covered in cuts and bruises and generally looks like _shit_ , so he hasn’t got a cat in Hell’s chance with the good lady doctor. It’s funny to watch, though because Dean must have a concussion if he thinks he’s making any headway.

“How’s it going?” Sam asks, when Dean pauses for breath.

“They gave me morphine,” Dean states and now Sam laughs, because he’s almost certain Dean says this every time he’s shot full of drugs in the ER.

“Awesome.”

With her creation complete, Dr. Mathis starts to remove her latex gloves. She looks over at Sam, who’s easing himself into the chair next to his brother’s bed, and frowns.

“Sam? Have you been checked out too?”

He smiles, doesn’t like to say he’s had enough injuries to know it’s nothing more serious than bruising. He also doesn’t know what Dean’s told her, although he can be pretty certain it wasn’t that his wrist got broken when an inbred cannibal hick whacked him in the arm with a rebar, while he was trying to rescue his brother and a deputy sheriff from their murderous clutches.

Instead he settles for, “I’m okay, really.”

The medic gives him one final appraising look, but she’s still smiling. Dean might not have scored a date, but he’s clearly charmed her with whatever he’s said. For that, Sam’s glad, because she’s clearly not about to give him any grief about not wanting to get examined.

“Okay,” she says, picking up a clipboard and writing something on it. “Dean. You ever have a plaster cast before?”

“Not one this well-made.”

She laughs and shakes her head.

“So you know about keeping it dry etcetera etcetera?”

“Yup.”

“Well it needs to stay on for at least six weeks. We’ll then x-ray it and see if the cast can come off.” She pauses, looking at Dean with a sympathetic expression. “Which hand do you write with?”

“The right,” Dean replies, waving his non-casted hand for good measure. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but instead he studies the hand he’s waving, like he’s never seen it before, and starts to grin. Sam wonders if he should ask exactly how much morphine Dean has had.

“Okay, well, that’s something at least,” Dr. Mathis says, evidently choosing to ignore the fact that her patient is now looking more like a man who’s just won the lottery than a man who has a nasty break to his left radius.

“I’ll go and fetch your discharge paperwork and then you boys can be on your way.”

She leaves the room, but Dean’s still grinning. Sam frowns.

“Dude, what gives?”

Dean looks at him now, like he’d forgotten Sam was even there. “That’s the first time.”

“The first time what?”

Dean huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

“The first time that the answer to that question hasn’t been a lie.”

Sam wonders if _he’s_ the one with a concussion for a moment, because he’s not sure he’s following Dean properly.

“She asked me which hand I write with,” Dean clarifies, his good mood clearly not dented by Sam’s inability to follow his train of thought.

“Doctors usually ask what hand you write with when you injury your hand or your arm and when I’ve been asked before, I’ve always said ‘right’, but I just realised, this is the first time that it’s actually been the truth.”

And now, Sam’s grinning too because the sheer delight on his brother’s face is contagious. It’s not morphine (okay, maybe it’s a _little_ morphine) – it’s pride and achievement and everything Dean _should_ be feeling about what he’s accomplished, working to overcome his illiteracy as an adult.

When Dr. Mathis returns with the forms, they’re both laughing like idiots. She looks at them both like they’re crazy, but Sam makes no attempt to explain - this is Dean’s story to tell, after all. For now though Dean is still enjoying his epiphany and Sam knows that despite the many ups and downs – past _and_ future, because this journey’s far from over – that it’s definitely, _definitely_ worth it.

**End**

**On to Epilogue...**


	4. Fragments (An Epilogue)

Much like the family business, Dean’s learning journey doesn’t have a clearly defined end point. They work at it together, Dean’s studies occupying a slot in their lives as important as hunting and fighting and chasing that yellow-eyed bastard. Although Dean isn’t one for praise, Sam _is_ proud of his brother and, years later, he knows he’ll look back over so many moments that remind him exactly why this journey was worth making.

Of course, it’s not all plain sailing. There are periods where they’re just too busy to hit the books properly and periods where the journey comes to a screeching halt altogether.

Their dad’s death is one of those periods. During the hunt for John they’d both contemplated many times that he might already be dead, but hypothetical dying and real dying are two very different things and when it’s reality, when it’s _their father_ that they’re burning on a funeral pyre, everything else understandably takes a backseat.

Only once, when Dean is seriously drunk and has reached the stage where laugh-weeping or pointless bar brawling are very real possibilities do they have any kind of conversation about what happened back in the hospital. Sam’s relieved Dean’s finally talking to him, because the odds of Bobby’s junkyard having anymore replacement trunk lids for a sixty seven Impala are slim to none.

Dean remembers nothing about his time in the hospital, which isn’t surprising given his unconscious state for the most of it. Sam fills him in on some of the details, which Dean listens to with apparent disinterest as he fingers his tumbler of whiskey. When he reaches the part about the glass smashing and his bringing in the talking board Dean looks up, raises his eyebrows and huffs a laugh.

“Thank God you taught me to write, huh Sammy?”

Sam shelves what he was about to say and frowns instead. “What?”

Dean smiles around the glass at his lips, but it’s a melancholy expression.

“Thank God you taught me to write. A talking board would have been fucking _useless_ if you hadn’t.”

“Guess you’re right,” Sam replies, and with that, the subject is officially closed.

OoOoO

Over the months they continue to make progress. Dean’s not at the point where he can sit down and enjoy a book (if their lives ever decided to offer them such an opportunity), but he’s definitely moved into the category of ‘functional’ rather than ‘total’ illiteracy. Dean does his share of motel check ins and, when they don’t have an audience, he’ll ask if there’s a word he’s not sure about, which is what tells Sam that his brother has the desire to keep learning.

Obviously not many people know about Dean’s illiteracy and it’s not the kind of thing he goes round telling people. He’s still a master of concealment so there are very few tells – but it’s like, as his skills improve, he’s more comfortable if people guess or if he straight up has to tell them.

When they’re incarcerated at Green River County Detention Centre, Dean uses his personal history to connect with the ironically named Tiny, whom he discovers is also illiterate. It’s a shared handicap and Dean reckons he’d actually persuaded Tiny that it was never too late to learn – if of course the ghost of Nurse Glockner hadn’t shortened Tiny’s future to a matter of minutes after Dean had finished giving him the pep-talk.

Then there’s the Djinn.

Sam studies his brother who has literally had the life sucked out of him as he lies on the motel bed staring at nothing. In the car Dean told him more about the dream he’d existed in – a dream where they’d both had normal lives, free from hunting and the knowledge that there even _were_ things that lurked in the shadows, and Sam knows that the pain on Dean’s face isn’t exclusively to do with his physical condition. Their mom had lived, their dad had died, but it was a _regular_ person’s death and they’d both had typical pasts to look back on and typical futures to look forward to.

Sam knows it’s the closest Dean’s come to understanding why _he’d_ tried so hard to leave the life and it’s weird to be the one providing the reassurances that hunting and saving others is worth all the pain. A couple of days pass and thankfully Dean is looking less like a person who has been hollowed out - his colour is better, thanks to Sam’s insistence that he lie there while bag after bag of IV nutrients drain into his body and mentally he appears to be accepting that their sacrifice might be worth it after all.

Sam’s just got back from a grocery run when he realises that Dean has a tatty-looking book in his hand. On closer inspection he realises that it’s _Breakfast of Champions._

“Vonnegut?” he asks, when Dean glances up at him.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean replies, dropping the book. The action is meant to look casual but his expression says he'd rather Sam hadn't noticed.

“Didn’t know you had that.”

“Yeah,” Dean says again, scratching at the spot where the IV line was, up until recently, buried in the crook of his arm. “I picked it up... after Nebraska. Figured if I was going to better myself, I needed something to aim for and Vonnegut’s always seemed like my kinda guy.”

Sam remembers well the documentary they watched years ago on Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. He knows, at the time, he’ll probably have commented that the author’s books were right up his brother’s street, unaware that Dean wouldn’t have had the ability to find out for many more years.

“That’s great, man,” he says, grinning. “So how’s it going?”

Dean frowns.

“It’s not.”

Sam gives him a look so he sighs.

“Like I said, I bought it after all the shit with that reaper. I thought ‘hey, I can read now’ but then I started it and I realised how little I actually knew. I mean, it’s one thing being able to read a menu in a diner but a novel? I was in way over my head, which I guess is why I never told you I’d bought it.”

Sam nods but doesn’t say anything. After a moment, Dean makes a face because Sam always does this to get him to keep talking.

It works.

“But then, in the dreamworld... I could _read_ , Sammy. I’d gone to school and learned, just like you. I had my own place and I had... I had _bookcases_ , Sammy.” Dean stops and laughs to himself, then shakes his head.

“When I realised I wasn’t going to be able to just pick up a novel and read it I figured I’d just set my expectations too high – hell, six months ago I couldn’t even recognise _my own name._ So I put the book away and told myself I should just be happy with what I _could_ do.”

Sam nods. “And now?”

“Now?” Dean smiles tiredly. “I want those fucking bookcases, Sammy.”

Dean picks up the discarded book and stares at the cover for a moment.

“I can’t change the fact that mom’s dead, Sam but I realised that there _are_ bits of that life that I _could_ have. So yeah, I figured I’d give it another go. I’ll never improve if I don’t keep trying, right?”

Sam smiles and nods. “Yeah, and for what it’s worth, I think Vonnegut _is_ your kinda guy so if you need any help then I’m here, man.”

“I know, Sammy and thanks, you know, for everything.”

“You’re welcome, man.”

It’s a _good_ feeling because it’s clear Dean wants more than just a rudimentary grasp of written language. When he thinks back to how he had to beg Dean to let him teach him, it’s obvious how far they’ve come and yet Dean wants to go further. Sam’s still grinning as he puts away the groceries because he can’t wait to see what they can achieve next.

Then he goes and fucks things up by getting killed.

Then Dean goes and fucks things up further by bringing him back.

So long story short, they’ve got a year: a measley three hundred and sixty five days to try and prevent Dean from taking an ill-deserved trip downstairs. Sam’s devastated, but one thing surprises him – Dean continues studying even though he’s resolute that Sam’s not going to save him and he’s got his hands full with a bucket list that’s dominated by sleeping with women and consuming almost toxic quantities of deep-fried food.

Despite the improvements, people still make judgements when they know Dean’s literacy skills lag way behind his chronological age. The natural inclination is to think Dean must be stupid and it fills Sam with a rage that makes bloodshed a distinct possibility even if Dean couldn’t care less what people think about him. It also means that people chronically underestimate his brother.

Bela is a perfect example.

She’s posing as a waitress the first time they meet her and since she’s basically a con artist, she’s got a read on them both almost instantly. And yeah, she’s noticed Dean’s enduring habit of mouthing the words he’s reading and frowning when he hits any he’s not sure about, so she’s doubly happy because the way she sees it is one: taking the rabbit’s foot should be ridiculously easy and two: the mentally challenged have no business being in possession of priceless artefacts anyway.

When Bela is making her getaway from the cemetery, _not_ in possession of the cursed rabbit’s foot but still considerably richer at their expense, Sam realises he’s more pissed about her attitude towards Dean than the fact that she’s stolen the winning scratchcards.

Or that she shot him for that matter.

She’d called Dean a ‘fuckwit’ (whatever one of those might be) and made a suitably bitchy comment about how she hoped he wouldn’t be this stubborn about hanging onto any priceless books given that he clearly didn’t have the intellectual capacity to appreciate their contents. Seething and in pain Sam knows he’d probably have shot her on the spot but Dean had simply shrugged.

Given, that was _before_ Dean had realised that she’d stolen all his scratchcards, but Sam reckons it still serves as proof that Dean’s illiteracy isn’t the issue or the source of embarrassment that it once was.

OoOoO

Trying to get Dean out of his deal is a frustratingly impossible process. The weeks barrel along, becoming months in the blink of an eye. They spend a poignant last Christmas together pointedly trying not the think about what next Christmas will look like. After discovering Dean harboured a desire to read Vonnegut, Sam had always figured he’d buy Dean a first edition copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ – something to work towards - but now it seems like a cruel joke.

He settles for porn instead.

When they stumble across the Trickster for the second time, it becomes painfully apparent what a warped fucker he is. They’d had a sneaking suspicion back in Ohio, what with the death by alligator and so on, but when Dean dies for the umpteenth time, bleeding to death from a _paper cut_ after reading a tourist pamphlet about the Broward County Mystery Spot Sam knows the little bastard is a real piece of work.

“You’ve gotta admit that was pretty ironic, Sam,” the Trickster says, delighted, when Sam’s finally worked it all out, like Sam’s going to laugh and agree and _not_ kill him slowly and painfully.

“And when he died from accidentally poking himself in the eye with a pen?” Sam growls.

The Trickster contemplates this for a moment, shrugs and then smirks.

“That too. Guess you should have never taught him how to read, huh?”

OoOoO

Dean’s deal comes due and everything they’ve worked for is in vain. In the weeks that follow, Sam weeps and rages in equal measure until his emotions are hard and cracked like a barren river bed. He thinks of Dean often, but his memories of his brother are all tainted now, saturated in Dean’s blood and drowned out by the incessant barking of Hell Hounds.

When Ruby focuses all his fury and grief into a neat package called revenge, he’s able to think of Dean with a little more clarity and a little less devastation. He thinks of all of his brother’s sacrifices, from the moment Dean was old enough to wield a weapon and join their father fighting the good fight.

Then he thinks of the last couple of years since they re-connected, when he’d convinced Dean that he deserved something for himself - that he _deserved_ to learn to read and write to give him greater freedom and more choices in his life. All that work, all that _toil_ and now Dean’s rotting in Hell.

He lets his outrage at this injustice fuel him. Since he can’t get Dean out he’s going to do the next best thing and kill Lilith, hopefully in a manner that will be excruciatingly painful. Even when Dean walks in, looking considerably less mangled than the last time Sam saw him and with no idea what busted him loose, it still seems like an awesome Plan A.

Understandably Dean seems to have returned from Hell with a healthy case of post-traumatic stress disorder, but it takes Sam a while to notice because being deep in the throes of a demon blood addiction doesn’t exactly make you awesome at focusing on anyone but yourself.

It’s only when their respective problems are all out in the open and acknowledged does Dean resume his studies. He’s still hesitant and Sam knows this is his brother’s self-loathing at work – like he doesn’t deserve to improve his quality of life in any way for what he did in Hell. Slowly but surely, with angels and demons at war around them, Sam’s able to convince Dean that he _does_ deserve it, culminating in a amazing moment when they have to return to one of the high schools of their youth.

Ordinarily when the need for undercover work could result in one of them playing a janitor and one of them playing a teacher, the decision about who’s doing what would be a fait accompli. When Dean however announces that he thinks his literacy skills are good enough not to blow his cover for a few days while they investigate the goings on in the school, Sam hasn’t the heart to make him play rock paper scissors for which of them is going to clean up teenagers’ shit and which one, well, isn’t.

When Dean pulls off the gym teacher role successfully, Sam is incredibly proud of his brother and ridiculously pleased for him. He’s also secretly relieved that he didn’t have to wear those fucking terrible gym shorts.

It’s fair to say they’ve seen _a lot_ of weird over the years. The bar’s now set pretty high so very little gets a reaction from them, but when the guy in the bookstore asks them if they’re _LARPING_ in the style of the Supernatural books, well, it’s a new one on both of them.

Things don’t get any less weird when they discover that their _entire lives_ are chronicled in these books. It’s weird and seriously creepy to read about things they’ve done and conversations they know they’ve had, but Sam still has to laugh when, in the middle of a laundromat Dean looks up from where he’s sitting with an expression of complete dismay and sums up the books in one succinct sentence.

“You know, Sammy, I think I liked it better when I _couldn’t_ read.”

OoOoO

The saying _shit happens_ could also be an appropriate description of their lives, Sam thinks, because let’s face it - they’ve definitely seen more shit happening than most. Between him and Dean, they’ve never got into a pissing contest over specifics because they’ve both been to Hell and back (literally), died a hundred deaths (also literally) and, put simply, there’s nothing to envy about either of their lives, so determining who takes the top prize in this crapfest seems a bit pointless.

There are lows on top of lows. Sam’s sanity is taken to the brink and through the haze of madness he sees his brother slipping further into depression and alcoholism. They continue to haemorrhage love ones – Bobby’s death hits them both like a hammer blow in the midst of all the chaos and there’s a period following the old man’s demise when they’re united, but only in their inability to move forwards.

But occasionally, _every so often_ , there are moments that are upon them like shards of sunlight breaking through the dense dark clouds overhead. Sam knows that it’s these moments that keep them going and the discovery of the Men of Letters bunker is a perfect example. It contains a wealth of information that will aid in their eternal struggle, but it’s _so_ much more than that.

It’s _home_.

Sam’s sceptical about laying down roots there until the day he goes into Dean’s room and makes a discovery. Dean’s raved about his memory foam mattress and _finally_ having a place to store his precious Led Zeppelin vinyl, but it’s what stands unobtrusively in the corner that gives Sam pause.

It’s the battered thrift store copy of _Breakfast of Champions_ standing alone on a small shelving unit.

_I want those fucking bookcases, Sammy_.

As he pulls the book out slightly he can see there’s an old beer coaster being used as a book mark, resting almost at the half way point.

_He’s not given up,_ Sam thinks and he finds himself grinning. Somehow Dean’s determination to read this book feels like a metaphor for their lives. It’s been hard - it’s _still_ hard – but his brother’s keeping on. Dean doesn’t know whether it’ll be worth all the effort _when_ he finally gets to the ending and they sure as hell don’t know either.

But they’ll keep turning the pages regardless.

**End**


End file.
